


the blood of the martyrs (will water the meadows)

by thatiranianphantom (FrraFee)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, In which Sadie writes self indulgent fluff for yet another fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 17:44:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8294587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrraFee/pseuds/thatiranianphantom
Summary: She sees it before.
But she hasn’t time to warn her. 
And she’s not fast enough.
(OR self-indulgent fluff about badass warriors Indra and Octavia, because I need more of this in my life).





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Oh shit, what am I doing? Am I not capable of watching a show without needing to write fanfiction? Shame is me.
> 
> Okay, so basically, this is just me living in denial and satisfying my Indra and Octavia feels because I need more of this in my life. Also, I’ve messed the timeline all up, so basically, that blood must not have blood thing still happened but Queen Nia is still in power because that was a badass villain they could have done so much more with, and I broTP the hell out of Clarke and Roan. 
> 
> Also, ain’t none of that dead lesbian shit in this here fic. Nosiree. Clarke and Lexa are happily together and none of that bullshit ever happened. Except the sex. That happened. 
> 
> Last, this is not a romantic Indra/Octavia fic. I see them much more as mentor/mentee/ family/mother/child. 
> 
> And Indra is so fun to write.

 

  

She sees it before.

 

But she hasn’t time to warn her.

 

And she’s not fast enough.

* * *

 

 

It was a battle against 300 of Azgeda’s warriors. Under Queen Nia, they challenged trikru, still out for the commander’s head, despite prevailing peace in the land.

 

Battles with the clan were becoming somewhat of a regular task.

 

More of a weekly exercise than a serious concern.

 

Indra takes along different warriors, commands with ease. They defeat Azgeda, every time, but they keep coming back.

 

And today – today she had informed Octavia of intruders, and the girl had bounced to Indra’s side like an overeager animal and refused to be left behind.

 

Octavia’s strength of spirit has never faded. She was no longer the girl she used to be. No trace of innocence remained behind her eyes, but that fire that Indra had seen the at the very beginning had only grown.

 

She is a warrior, like Indra.

 

And whenever Indra watches her fight, fight like Indra had trained her to, harnesses that spirit and uses it to take Azgeda down, she finds herself entirely filled with a foreign feeling of warmth, spreading through her bones.

 

Octavia takes down three Azgeda without blinking an eye, her sword swinging in a controlled motion through the air, plunging into the Azgeda _gona_ ’s legs. Just like Indra had taught her.

 

It happens that day, as every day. That warm feeling that spreads through her when she watches the girl fight, all fire, a tornado of action, it pervades her, though she doesn’t allow herself to name that feeling.

 

She watches Octavia out of the corner of her eye, during a lull. She has made her mark apparent right away.

 

The Azgeda cowards know she is not to be trifled with. That she will kill them.

 

 

 

On orders from Lexa, they are to stand trial. They are to kill as few and capture as many as possible. That means non-fatal wounds, deliberately holding back, things Indra is yet unaccustomed to.

 

She would protest, but she dare not question Heda, and Polis has never enjoyed such a long period of peace, so maybe there is something to this “blood must not have blood”.

 

She slices the leg of another warrior, and is on her way up when she sees it.

 

 

The Azgeda _gona_ comes up from behind Octavia, clamps an arm around her neck. Indra has taught the girl how to get out of such situations before, but this was a planned attack. The _gona_ is out for blood, and he spins Octavia before Indra can so much as blink.

 

It’s fast, too fast, but what happens next happens in slow motion, right before Indra’s eyes.

 

He wields his knife.

 

Her mouth moves to form Octavia’s name.

 

 

Not fast enough.

 

The knife plunges into her chest and the _bushhada_ runs.

 

And there are many people on this battlefield, too many, but in that moment, something changes in Indra’s mind. For this sole moment, she is not thinking about killing _gonas_ , not barking orders, not doing anything but rushing to the girl’s side as she collapses.

 

Octavia has fallen where she was injured.

 

She lies still, the knife jutting from her chest, her breath ragged.

 

Just as Indra’s has become.

 

The wound is deep, she sees that right away.

 

Blood flows freely from it. Too much blood. Indra sees that too.

 

And she sees the look in Octavia’s eyes, the same look she wears so often.

 

She knows. She knows when her end has come. She accepts it.

 

And that is the difference between them.

 

She can accept it.

 

Indra will not.

 

The words come out of the young girl’s mouth with a trickle of blood that turns Indra’s stomach.

 

“Leave me,” she gasps.

 

Indra shakes her head, but in her mind is two people. One, the _gona_ , the leader, the one who knew what she had always told Lexa.

 

“ _Victory stands on the back of sacrifice._ ”

 

This is war. People die. She is wasting time, and in the midst of battle, time is not something they can afford to waste.

 

But then there is another person, a person she thought abandoned long ago. A person who refuses to accept this brave, strong girl dying. A person who feels that loss more personally than ever.

 

And in the end, that is the person who speaks.

 

“Warriors do not abandon their seconds,” she hisses. “We will get you a healer.”

 

Octavia smiles, and it’s a sad smile. The blood drips out of the corner of her mouth and Indra resists the urge to wipe it.

 

_What is the matter with her?_

 

“You have Azgeda to catch. You are a warrior, Master Indra. Leave me.”

 

She wants to. _She can’t_.

 

She has seen thousands die. _She cannot see this girl die._

Using all her strength (that spirit has never faded. Indra would never want it to), Octavia pushes Indra away.

 

“ _Go_ ,” she growls. “Take them down.”

 

* * *

 

 

She does.

 

She has to.

 

She vaguely remembers telling another second to watch over Octavia, because she is _gona_ , but damned if she will let this girl die alone.

 

The battle lasts mere moments, or hours, she can’t be sure.

 

All she knows is that eventually, it ends, Azgeda felled once more, their men lined up to take back to Polis as prisoners.

 

She’s nearly through the line when she sees him.

 

The murderous glint in his eyes gives him away.

 

(And Octavia’s blood still on his hands.)

 

He had been captured by Lexa, and she doesn’t think he is in her line of vision by accident. He’s bound, helpless. Pathetic.

 

Heda clears her throat.

 

“I am needed…to check on the other warriors. See how many are fit to stand trial.”

 

It’s an excuse and Indra knows it.

 

She kneels, faces this excuse for a human, looks him in the eyes.

 

“You,” she hisses. “It was you.”

 

“ _Wamplei gon Skaikru_ ,” he spits. “She means nothing. Death to skaikru.”

 

And the second person in her head wins out again.

 

* * *

 

In retrospect, she wishes she had made it longer. Made him suffer more. Made him feel a fraction of the pain he had inflicted on Octavia.

 

But in actuality, it is quick.

 

Her knife plunges into his heart, and it’s over.

 

The fact that he was bound and helpless means nothing to Indra. He hurt, he killed.

 

He killed _Octavia._

 

For that fact alone, he deserved a thousand deaths.

 

“She does not mean nothing,” Indra growls to the dead Azgeda. The world will know this of Octavia, if nothing else.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Heda returns, she sighs wearily.

 

“Indra,” Lexa sighs. “You were given orders to only disarm, not kill.”

 

But there is no trace of discipline in her tone, and her eyes are full of sympathy.

 

She will not be punished for this, Indra knows.

 

“Apologies, Commander,” she whispers, so lightly it’s barely a sound.

 

Weakness.

 

Indra had been considering it of late.

 

Heda knew. She struggled with it herself. Indra sometimes forgot that Heda was still a young girl, responsible for so many. And yet she displayed so little weakness. Sometimes, in a situation seemingly hopeless, she would see the droop of her Heda’s usually proud shoulders. She would see how tired she was.

 

And then Clarke would swoop in, her eyes brushing over the commander. And her hand would reach out, catching Lexa’s fingers with her and squeezing. Just brief, just a moment, but then, then the commander stood up tall.

 

Was that what love did for people?

 

She had seen it again, the last time they returned, this day’s battle so particularly harsh that it had gotten back to Polis, where Clarke remained.

 

When they return, bloodied and bruised but alive, she sees Clarke. _Wanheda_ tries to hide it, but Indra has spent many years anticipating a person’s every move. Years spent scrutinizing everyone, poised for attack.

 

She had ordered her generals out of the room, and turned her back, making to stand at the door. Protect the commander, but blind herself to this.

 

They have not been gone a moment before Clarke yanks the commander into her arms, clutches at her desperately.

 

Surely, Indra thought, she could see that Heda has survived.

 

But now, many months later, she understands.

 

She needs that physical touch, that verification that her loved one is still of this world.

 

She understands now.

 

 

* * *

 

She understands as they begin to collect the bodies of the dead, as she slowly, so very reluctantly, makes her way over to the group containing dead _trikru._

 

She’s there, in the middle.

 

Her eyes are closed, blood coats her clothing.

 

She looks so very young. Too young for this.

 

They part as Indra arrives, but she dares not glance at their faces.

 

And after so many years in battle, Indra is herself shocked by how her body betrays her mind.

 

Hating herself, hating every second of this _weakness_ , and especially hating how tears seemed to well of their own accord, she lays a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

 

* * *

 

She should have known better, she knows.

 

She won’t do this again.

 

There will be no other seconds for her.

 

_Yu gonplei ste odon, Octavia kom…Trikru_ , she whispers.

 

 

* * *

 

 

And then she feels it.

 

It’s minute, but it’s there.

 

Octavia’s chest is rising and falling, ever so slightly.

 

She’s _alive_.

 

Indra yells for a healer, orders a stretcher, threatens the warrior who dares to suggest they leave her there to die at knifepoint.

 

Octavia is brought to their medical bay, being run by Abigail kom Trikru.

 

They rush her in.

  
And Indra leaves.

 

No, not runs. Indra does not run, not from anything.

 

But she will not enter.

 

* * *

 

 

She stays with Heda until night’s end.

 

Her mind is not there, and they both know it.

 

But she needs to do _something_. She needs to quell the uselessness she feels.

 

So she accompanies the commander on all of her tasks, until she stops outside Lexa and Clarke’s door. _Wanheda_ comes up from behind the commander, slips her arms around Lexa’s waist and rests her chin on Lexa’s shoulder.

 

The girl’s eyes are soft. They carry sympathy, something Indra abhors more than anything.

 

“ _Gon we_ , Indra.” She says. “Go to her.”

 

Indra plants her feet firmly at Heda’s door.

 

“I must see that the commander is taken care of, in light of Azgeda threats.”

 

Clarke shakes her head. “I’ve got commander duty tonight. And Octavia has kept watch over you many times.”

 

(The name hurts).

 

“Besides,” the girl smiles. “Guards in the medical bay looked awfully tired tonight. They probably could use a shift change. Especially from an experienced general.”

 

 

* * *

 

She assigns herself to medical bay watch without allowing herself to think about it.

 

_Weakness_.

 

As it turns out, the guards do protest when she asserts her takeover, but she is General Indra, and they take orders from her.

 

“I said, you are relieved,” she spits. “I suggest you move before I change my mind.”

 

The guards scurry out, leaving only Abigail kom Skaikru, who gives her the same knowing look that her daughter had.

 

“She’s in the far bed. Clarke was here to help me with her wounds earlier, but there’s not much else we can do, especially after the onslaught of injured we got today.”

 

Indra glances over to the abandoned far bed.

 

“The girl has a brother, does she not?”

 

Abby nods shortly.

 

“He has not been to see her?”

 

“It’s complicated.” Abby says shortly.

 

“She is family. She was injured nobly, in battle, yet she remains alive. I see nothing complicated about the duty to support one’s loved ones.”

 

Abby looks down, shakes her head, and mumbles something about “shouldn’t throw stones, took you long enough.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Octavia is breathing, for this Indra admits she is grateful.

 

But her body is swathed in so many white cloths, and blood leaks through them still. All Indra can see is blood.

 

Her face, as well, sports many new purpling bruises, and dry, crusted blood. It’s in her hair, it stains her skin.

 

“You did not even think to wash the blood?” Indra snaps.

 

“We’ve been a little busy,” Abby replies, her tone matching the iciness of Indra’s.

 

“There are no injuries on her face. Cleanup is scheduled for night shift. She’ll be clean by the morning.”

 

Indra scoffs. “I am to believe you? Octavia is a warrior. She will be treated as such.”

 

But Abby is not intimidated.

 

“There’s a bowl of water and a rag by her bed. If you think we’re doing such a terrible job, go for it.”

 

Indra bristles. “I am not a healer. Or a servant.”

 

Abby shakes her head. “Suit yourself. You’ll have to wait for night shift..”

 

Octavia’s forehead burns with fever. Her skin radiates heat, and her body tosses and turns with discomfort, breath coming in gasping moans.

 

Indra sweeps her eyes around the room to make sure there is nobody present, then reaches carefully into the bowl and grasps the rag. Making sure it’s appropriately wet, she brings it to Octavia.

 

The blood slides off with each stroke. Indra finds herself oddly comforted to see the purple bruses under the blood. Bruises would heal. And the blood was not her own.

 

Octavia groans in her sleep, her hands clenching and unclenching.

 

Indra is sure what does it.

 

Weakness.

 

This place pervades vulnerability, makes it sink into everyone.

 

Even her.

 

Weakness (but also love) lives in this room, and that is what makes her slide her hand into Octavia’s, and weakness explains that warm feeling when the girl’s shakes stop.

 

She is a _warrior_ , and yet she is by the sickbed of her underling, clutching onto her hand and feeling only relief that she yet lives.

 

Weakness, and no small amount of _pride._

 

And that is the feeling. The feeling that fills her up when she watches Octavia fight. The feeling that fills her now as the girl continues to fight, as she always has, as she always will.

 

She kneels down to Octavia’s side.

 

“ _Yu gonplei nou ste odon,_ Octavia kom Trikru. I am proud of you.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> And there we have self-indulgent fluff. 
> 
> Props to the internet for helping me with Trigedaslang. 
> 
> Also, domestic Clexa kills me. And I headcanon that Clarke sometimes just jumps on Lexa in public to make her and Indra uncomfortable. 
> 
> I’m working on two Clexa fics, one fluffy, one is me vomiting out death feels and making me behind on my Hamilton fic. Good times.


End file.
